No Surprise
by Mkatsi
Summary: John comes home, tired, only to find Sherlock snooping about in his room.  slash or not, depending on your reading  Thanks to Jadefyre for the prompt!


It wasn't particularly suspicious when John arrived home from a day at the clinic to find every light in the upstairs flat of 221B Baker Street on, but nobody home. He did not worry, when calling Sherlock's name, there was no reply. He was not surprised when he noted that the fridge was left open, and was empty and sending a strange glow pooling across the kitchen floor.

John simply sighed, flicked off light switches, and closed the fridge door before wearily shedding his jacket as he moved towards his room, a slight stiffness obvious in his frame. The day had been long, and his patients trying.

John pushed open the door to his bedroom, it creaked in the same way he felt his bones did, and he felt a strange sympathy towards the old hinges. Coat in hand now, the Dr shuffled forwards ready to fall into the comforting embrace of his mattress, when he froze. His frame instantly straightened, and his gaze shifted from a heavy glaze and adopted a sharpness.

"Sherlock" he observed somewhat needlessly, voice clipped and low.

The figure before him was thin and lithe, a waif, dipping long fingers into draws that did not belong to him and flicking through pages of books that he had undoubtedly already read.

The reply too, was unsurprising, a simple sound of acknowledgement.

"mm"

No questioning nor remorse, and no slowing of the less than careful sorting and picking that the other seemed intent on.

"Sherlock" the doctor tried once more.

"What are you doing in my room? And going through my things?" he tried to sound indignant. He was annoyed yes, but he was not shocked. A vague wondering of how often this actually happened passed over his mind. He could not really bring himself to care.

Sherlock slowed, momentarily to listen- but did not relent as he pulled open a drawer full of papers: - old files, things from the army and various clinics; Photos of old friends, love letters.

"Looking"

The reply was simple. Sherlock liked to think John was stupid, to point out the obvious in situations. John wondered if the other even knew how often he actually missed the point.

"Yes, but why in here? And whatever for?" the blonde pressed, his voice level and firm, as if talking to a naughty animal. He moved forward, his coat set aside on the bedding, his hand pushing closed the drawer that Sherlock had just opened, careful not to catch pale fingers and glass like nails.

A cloud passed over the detective's face. He looked at John with distain. No words, no vocal answer, only the look.

John was not surprised.

There were long drawn out moments of silence in which John levelled Sherlock's gaze and Sherlock did not try to understand the problem John had, before he turned back to open the drawer.

John sighed. "What is it you want?" he asked slowly.

"What makes you think I want anything John?" Sherlock said, his tone etched with impatience, his snooping relentless.

"Well…" the Dr started, frustrated, but awake now. From dead to alive in the face of frustration.

"You are looking through my things, and I assume you have been for some time, which means that you must be looking for something in particular, which you have no found, least you would not still be looking"

His reasoning was calm, his tone was not.

"As usual John, your deduction is lacking and your conclusion messy. Of course I am looking through your things, but what makes you think I want to find anything hmm?"

The reply came quickly, and Sherlock was looking at him now, his frame tall, his eyes piercing. They were made to fight these two, to challenge.

"I don't know Sherlock, why are you here?" John played the fool, his limbs feeling heavy again. He was wrong, again. He was not surprised.

"I was searching for you" came the reply.

John was confused, and Sherlock was looking through a photograph album.

"I've been out all day Sherlock, I work on Fridays now, I have done for the past four months"

"Yes, yes John I know that of course" the detective sounded insulted. John was hardly stunned by this. The world seemed created to get in Sherlock's way.

"What then?" the doctor managed, his voice raised and the anger and weariness etched on his face. "What are you on about Sherlock?"

He was tired again. Sherlock was a one man roller coaster and John merely coasted, had done for two years now. Strapped in to be jerked around. These moments didn't shock him any longer. He could barely manage disappointment.

"I was looking for you John." Sherlock said, his voice low, his body moving nearer, his gaze soft. "You're tired these days; too tired to talk. I wanted to learn more about you- Everything about you. I need to see your life through your eyes, so I can understand. So I can help." His tone was genuine, and for the first time in months, John was surprised.

The embrace was long and slow, and Sherlock felt like a ghost under his hands, but somehow they fitted together, like it was made to be. Like they were moulded that way. John was not surprised in the least.


End file.
